Happy Christmas
by larrythestapler
Summary: Trolling to Broadway through a heavy storm, Stacey reignites a long lost rapport with Holden Caulfield. After getting pummelled by Maurice, Holden is desolate and fragile. Can the spooky air of Christmas lift the two old friends with a vague optimism?


A/N: Thank you for anyone who bothered to put in a nice review in the last story I published! Unfortunately, I strayed from the (ugh) cookie-cutter and formatted structure of the narrative format, so I had to fix my story! Here's the new story, and there are some edits and similarities, so I hope you enjoy it anyway. It is POLISHED. I'm going to start posting more stories now, since I've felt so inspired to write. Hope you guys like this pseudo-new style of my writing. I'm trying to be more succinct and clear in my writing (as suggested by Mrs. S) so, here goes nothing!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own _The Catcher in the Rye_. The Salinger estate does.

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HAPPY CHRISTMAS

I heard soft Christmas music buzz faintly across the dim hallway. The sultry, low pitch of the singer's voice made me very languid and I began to wonder why I walked a cumbersome twelve flights of stairs up. Trolling to Broadway with a friend, I passed by the squalid Edmont Hotel and saw Holden Caulfield morosely trailing into the front entrance. I halted and walked into the main lobby of the hotel, where I immediately sensed a distastefully shoddy and raunchy ambiance. The main staff treated me poorly, much to my disdain. It was a while before I could actually ask for Holden's room, 1222. Anyway, I walked the entire filthy, freezing twelve flights up his room, contemplating his reaction.

Leaning against the front of his door, I began to wonder why I was even in this pigsty of a place. I remembered Holden Caulfield as the quiet, grumpy boy on the bus who sat in the seat behind me. I envied his supreme reading skills, but he read mostly comics during quiet reading time. Although we grew up side by side, I did not know Holden too well until attending the third grade with him. Mr. Parsons, bless him, was our third grade teacher. He had a funny personality. The old guy enjoyed making his students laugh, though his humor often came off as overdone and vehement. We were both in his class; I remembered sitting next to Holden and exchanging odd looks and laughs over Parson's irreverent humor. I walked up here out of curiosity, but I guess a small part of me wanted to re-ignite a long lost rapport. I reminisced third grade for a while, until I finally mustered the courage to knock on his door.

_HAPKnock. Knock._

The sound of the city whispered from an unknown source. Perhaps whoever was in there had left their window open. After five minutes or so, I heard a forced grunt.

"Who?" The replying voice sounded slurred and confused. I assumed it was Holden.

"It's me, Stacey. I saw you walking into the hotel. Remember third grade?" I spoke quietly, my eyes averting to the beige, moldy wall to my side. I don't think he heard me. I spoke louder. "Is this Holden Caulfield? I'm Stacey from third grade…"

"What the, I don't even…I don't even know who you are, lady. Just get out," a low raspy

voice demanded. It was Holden. I heard him let out a sluggish groan. "Goddam headache…"

"Really now? You don't know me?" I questioned softly. I slouched against the moldy, faded door and placed my hands in the pockets of my coat. After a long a long stretch of silence and a crude grunt, the voice responded gruffly.

"Stacey…Stacey…Third grade? Mr. Parsons…" Holden muttered. And then, there it was, hope. I felt an irrational feeling of relief when he said that name. Mr. Parsons, like I mentioned, was my third grade teacher. "Stacey, who gave her Barbie a buzz cut?"

"Yes, how are you?" I chuckled, reminiscing my rather unscrupulous childhood. I felt eager to continue the light conversation. Perhaps my tone of cheeriness sounded a little rehearsed. I added, "You don't have to open the door. I just want to talk. It's almost Christmas and since I saw you walking alone, I just thought you'd like some company. Maybe we could hang out later and get some coffee or something."

"I feel like a million bucks." I noticed a hint of sarcasm. I heard an unpleasant gagging sound from Holden. He didn't sound too hot. "What do you think I feel like? For Chrissake, don't go vomiting sunshine here. You always did that, you know. You always pretended to be happy."

I tried to think of a viable rebuttal, but my mind failed me. I was worried he would ask me to leave, as I had taken the hint of disapproval in his tone. He knew I feared displeasing people. My unintentional sanguinity probably seemed like a blinding ray of sunshine to his stormy demeanor. Deep down, I felt a bit guilty and cruel for bothering Holden.

"Do you remember old Parsons?" I asked, attempting to dodge a snarky curveball. Imagining his snotty, sarcastic reply made me cringe. But to my surprise, his tone of voice softened a bit. I listened, positioning myself so close that I could smell his awful cigar smoke.

"The old guy always had something funny to say. Always talking about his sons and wife. Seemed to live a pretty phony and nice life." His voice had a bit of a rambling quality to it, and his breathing sounded rather heavy and lethargic. After pausing for a bit, he added, "I think

he liked both of us."

"Yeah, remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing when he made that awful face after we pranked him? You know, that time when we convinced him that we gave him soda, but we really gave him vinegar? " I questioned, giggled to myself. Like Holden, I was reserved and demure as a child, and you could barely force a peep out of me. But that prank really killed me, even though it was quite cruel to Mr. Parsons. Holden remained indifferent, but I sensed a strained gap closing between us.

"I remember…Parson's sense of humor was so goddamn awful," Holden responded quietly. I really wondered what he looked like behind that door. Sad? Angry? His passive tone bemused me. Was berating me really that tiring to him or was he actually feeling kinder?

"It was," I agreed hollowly.

"Hey…" Holden's voice trailed off and picked itself back up, "What do you think happens to the ducks at Central Park during the winter?"

"I don't know," I answered. "They always come back during the spring though. They do."

"Yeah, they do," he softly reiterated.

"Look, it's freezing out here. Mind if I come in?" He didn't answer. But to my greatest surprise, Holden Caulfield, the stubborn and passive-aggressive boy-man, opened the door for me minutes later. The sound of locks unlocking and the singular sound of a doorknob twist rang happily in my ears. Holden placed a red hunting hat on his head, preparing to leave with me to wherever I had planned to go with him. The shoddy hat gave him a sort of vague confidence that tolerated him to modestly approach me. He allowed me to enter a part of his world that he locked up underneath all the obscenities and complaints, even if it was just a narrow crevice. It shocked me to see him badly bruised, worse, bleeding and shivering. He looked disheveled and unhappy, but a vaguely uplifting tone shadowed a small corner of his face.

"Happy Christmas, Holden."

FINISH.

A/N: Please review! I'd appreciate any comments, flames if you'd like. Tell me anything; tell me that I write in the passive voice too often, that I have syntax errors or if my writing is prolifically redundant! Tell me!


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